Village  Wife's  Lament 


1.C8 


/6 /S. 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE'S  LAMENT 


THE 

VILLAGE  WIFE'S 
LAMENT 


BY 

MAURICE  HEWLETT 

Author  of 
"Earthwork  Out  of  Tuscany,**  "Gai  Saber,*'  etc. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

TTbe  IKnicfeerbocfter  press 

1918 


.COPYRIGHT,  1918 

BY 
MAUBUCE  HEWLETT 


TTbc  Imfcfcerbocfeer  f>re0«,  flew  tforfc 

./1 2**Slt  *    i  /•   *  \ 


The  Village   Wife's    Lament 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 


O  WHAT  is  this  you've  done  to  me, 

Or  what  have  I  done, 
That  bare  should  be  our  fair  roof-tree, 

And  I  all  alone? 
'Tis  worse  than  widow  I  become, 

More  than  desolate, 
To  face  a  worse  than  empty  home 

Without  child  or  mate. 

'Twas  not  my  strife  askt  him  his  life 

When  it  was  but  begun, 
Nor  mine,  I  was  a  new-made  wife 

And  now  I  am  none; 
Nor  mine  that  many  a  sapless  ghost 

Wails  in  sorrow-fare — 
But  this  does  cost  my  pride  the  most, 

That  bloodshedding  to  share. 
3 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

Image  of  streaming  eyes,  tear-gleaming, 

Of  women  foiled  and  defeat, 
I  am  like  Christ  shockt  out  of  dreaming, 

Showing  His  hands  and  feet ; 
Showing  His  feet  and  hands  to  God, 

Saying,  "Are  these  in  vain? 
For  men  I  have  trod  the  sorrowful  road, 

And  by  them  I  am  slain. " 

Seeing  I  have  a  breast  in  common, 

I  must  share  in  that  shame, 
Since  from  the  womb  of  some  poor  woman 

Each  evil  one  came — 
Every  hot  and  blundering  thought, 

Every  hag-rid  will, 
And  every  haut  king  pride-distraught 

That  drove  men  out  to  kill. 

A  woman's  womb  did  fashion  him, 

Her  bosom  was  his  nurse, 
And  many  women's  eyes  are  dim 

To  see  their  sons  a  curse. 
Had  I  the  wit  some  women  have 

To  one  such  I  would  say, 
"Think  you  this  love  the  good  Lord  gave 

Is  yours  to  take  away  ? " 
4 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

O  Hand  divine  that  for  a  sign 

Didst  bend  the  rose-red  bow, 
Betokening  wrath  was  no  more  Thine 

With  man's  Cain-branded  brow — 
What  now,  O  Lord,  shouldst  Thou  accord 

To  such  a  shameful  brood? 
A  bow  as  crimson  as  the  sword 

Which  men  have  soakt  in  blood. 


11 


I  CANNOT  see  the  grass 
Or  feel  the  wind  blowing, 

But  I  think  of  brother  and  brother 
And  hot  blood  flowing. 

The  whole  world  akin, 

And  I,  an  alien, 
Walk  branded  with  the  sin 

And  the  blood-guilt  of  men. 

And  often  I  cry 

In  my  sharp  distress, 
It  were  better  to  die 

Than  know  such  bitterness. 
5 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

iii 

THE  Lord  of  Life  He  did  ordain 

How  this  world  should  run, 
That  Love  should  call  thro*  joy  and  pain 

Two  natures  to  be  one; 
Now  jags  across  the  high  God's  plan 

Division  like  a  scar, 
For  this  is  true,  that  He  made  man, 

But  man  made  war. 

Had  men  the  dower  of  teeth  and  claws 

And  not  a  grace  beside  them? 
Were  they  given  wit  to  know  the  laws 

And  hard  hearts  to  outride  them? 
What  drove  them  turn  the  sweet  green  earth 

Into  a  puddle  of  blood? 
What  drove  them  drown  our  simple  mirth 

In  salt  tear-flood? 

Has  man  been  lifted  up  erect, 

A  lord  of  life  and  death, 
His  world's  elect,  and  his  brow  deckt 

With  murder  for  a  wreath? 
What  shall  be  done  with  such  an  one, 

And  whither  he  be  hurl'd? 
The  Lord  let  crucify  His  Son — 

Who  gibbeted  His  world? 
6 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

iv 

BE  it  Pole  Star  or  Southern  Cross 

That  shelters  me  or  you, 
The  same  things  are  gain  and  loss, 

And  the  same  things  true : 
The  home-love,  the  mother-love, 

The  old,  old  things; 
The  lad's  love  of  maiden's  love 

That  gives  a  man  wings, 

And  makes  a  maid  stand  still,  afraid 

Lest  it  were  all  a  dream 
That  he  do  think  himself  apaid 

If  she  be  all  to  him. 
The  arching  earth  has  no  more  worth 

Than  this,  to  love,  to  wed, 
To  serve  the  hearth,  to  bring  to  birth, 

To  win  your  children's  bread. 


THE  bee  pills  nothing  for  himself, 
Loading  with  gold  his  thigh, 

The  martin  twittering  at  his  shelf, 
Glancing  from  the  sky — 

7 


The  Village  Wifefs  Lament 

Not  greedy  ease  makes  slaves  of  these; 

Nor  yet  endures  the  cow, 
Her  failing  knees  and  agonies 

For  price  of  joy  I  vow. 

A  call  above  the  spell  of  love, 

A  crying  and  a  need 
To  make  two  one,  the  fruit  whereof 

To  nurture  and  to  feed; 
To  brood,  to  hoard,  to  spend  as  rain 

Virtue  and  tears  and  blood; 
To  get  that  you  may  give  amain — 

Of  such  is  parenthood. 


VI 


I  CHOSE  a  heart  out  of  a  hundred 

To  nest  my  own  heart  in; 
To   have   that    plundered,    and    two    hearts 
sunder'd — 

Who  had  heart  for  the  sin? 
What  woman's  son  that  saw  but  one 

Such  sanctuary  waste 
Could  set  his  lips  like  ironstone 

And  raven  broadcast? 
8 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

What  harm  did  we  to  any  man 

That  now  I  must  moan? 
We  did  but  follow  Nature's  plan 

And  cleave  to  our  own; 
For  Life  it  teaches  you  but  this: 

Seek  you  each  other; 
Rise  up  from  your  clasp  and  kiss, 

A  father  and  a  mother. 


O  piety  of  hand  and  knee, 

Of  lips  and  bow'd  head! 
O  ye  who  see  a  soul  set  free — 

Free,  when  the  heart  is  dead ! 
There  is  no  rest  but  in  the  grave; 

Thither  my  wasted  eyes 
Turn  for  the  only  home  they  have, 

Where  my  true  love  lies. 

There  alongside  his  clay-cold  corse 

I  pray  that  mine  may  rest ; 
I'll  warm  him  with  my  lover's  force 

And  feed  him  at  my  breast : 
I'll  nurse  him  as  I  nurst  his  child, 

The  child  he  never  saw, 
The  stricken  child  that  never  smil'd, 

And  scarce  my  milk  could  draw. 
9 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

Poor  girls,  whose  argument's  the  same 

For  seeking  or  denying, 
Who  kiss  to  shield  yourselves  from  blame, 

And  kiss  for  justifying; 
How  am  I  better  now  or  worse, 

Beguiler  or  beguiled, 
Who  crave  to  nurse  a  clay-cold  corse, 

And  kiss  a  dead  child? 

vii 

0  I  WAS  shap't  in  comeliness, 
My  face  was  fashion'd  fair, 

My  breath  was  sweet,  I  used  to  bless 

The  treasure  of  my  hair; 
A  many  prais'd  my  body's  grace, 

And  follow'd  with  the  eye 
My  faring  in  the  village  ways, 

And  I  knew  why. 

Love  came  my  way,  fire-flusht  and  gay, 

Where  I  did  stand: 
"This  is  the  day  your  pride  to  lay 

Under  a  true  man's  hand. " 

1  bow'd  my  head  to  hear  it  said 

In  words  of  long  ago; 
For  ever  since  the  world  was  made 
Our  lot  was  order' d  so. 
10 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

And  I  was  bred  in  pious  bed, 

Brought  up  to  be  good : 
Respect  yourself,  my  mother  said, 

And  rule  your  own  mood. 
Fend  for  yourself  while  you're  a  may, 

And  keep  your  own  counsel, 
And  pick  at  what  the  neighbours  say 

As  a  bird  picks  at  groundsel. 

But  Love  said  Nay  to  Watch  and  Pray 

When  the  birds  were  singing, 
And  taught  my  heart  a  roundelay 

Like  the  bells  a-ringing; 
And  so  blindf ast  I  ran  and  cast 

My  treasure  on  the  gale — 
Would  the  storm-blast  had  snapt  the  mast 

Before  I  fared  to  sail ! 


ii 


II 


1 


Now  that  the  Lord  has  open'd  me 

The  evil  with  the  good, 
I  am  as  one  wise  suddenly 

Who  never  understood. 
I  see  the  shaping  of  my  days 

From  the  beginning, 
When,  a  young  child,  I  walkt  the  ways 

And  knew  nought  of  sinning. 

I  see  how  Nature  ripen'd  me 

Under  sun  and  shower, 
As  she  ripens  herb  and  tree 

To  bud  and  to  flower. 
As  she  ripens  herb  and  tree 

Unto  flowering  shoot, 
So  it  was  she  ripen'd  me 

That  I  might  fruit. 

12 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

I  see — alas,  how  should  I  not, 

With  all  joy  behind?— 
How  that  in  love  I  was  begot 

And  for  love  designed. 
Consentient,  my  mother  lent, 

Blessing,  who  had  been  blest, 
That  fount  unspent,  my  nourishment, 

Which  after  swell'd  my  breast. 

ii 

I  LEARNED  at  home  the  laws  of  Earth: 

The  nest-law  that  says, 
Stray  not  too  far  beyond  the  hearth, 

Keep  truth  always; 
And  then  the  law  of  sip  and  bite: 

Work,  that  there  may  be  some 
For  you  who  crowd  the  board  this  night, 

And  the  one  that  is  to  come. 

The  laws  are  so  for  bird  and  beast, 

And  so  we  must  live: 
They  give  the  most  who  have  the  least, 

And  gain  of  what  they  give. 
For  working  women  'tis  the  luck, 

A  child  on  the  lap; 
And  when  a  crust  he  learn  to  suck, 

Another's  for  the  pap. 
13 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 


ill 


I  KNOW  'tis  true,  the  laws  of  Life 

Are  holy  to  the  poor : 
Cleave  you  to  her  who  is  your  wife, 

Trust  you  in  her  store; 
Eat  you  with  sweat  your  self -won  meat, 

Labour  the  stubborn  sod, 
And  that  your  heat  may  quicken  it, 

Wait  still  upon  God. 

Hallow  with  praise  the  wheeling  days 

Until  the  cord  goes  slack, 
Until  the  very  heartstring  frays, 

Until  the  stiffening  back 
Can  ply  no  more;  keep  then  the  door, 

And,  thankful  in  the  sun, 
Watch  you  the  same  unending  war 

Ontaken  by  your  son. 


IV 


WHO  is  to  know  how  she  does  grow 
Or  how  shapes  her  mind? 

The  seasons  flow,  not  fast  or  slow, 
We  cannot  lag  behind. 
14 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

The  long  winds  blow,  a  tree  lies  low 

That  was  an  old  friend : 
The  winter  snow,  the  summer's  glow — 

Shall  these  things  have  an  end? 

When  I  was  young  I  used  to  think 

I  should  not  taste  of  death; 
And  now  I  faint  to  reach  the  brink, 

And  grudge  my  every  breath 
That  streameth  to  the  utter  air- 

Leaving  me  to  my  tears 
And  outlook  bare,  with  eyes  astare 

Upon  the  creeping  years. 

V 

THAT  little  old  house  that  seems  to  stoop 

Yellow  under  thatch, 
Like  a  three-sided  chicken-coop, 

Where,  if  you  watch, 
You'll  see  the  starlings  go  and  come 

All  a  spring  morn — 
Half  of  that  is  my  old  home 

Where  I  was  born. 

One  half  a  little  old  cottage 

The  five  of  us  had, 
Five  tall  sisters  in  a  cage 

With  our  Mother  and  Dad. 
15 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

Alice  she  was  the  eldest  one, 

Then  Mary,  and  then  me, 
And  then  Fanny,  and  little  Joan, 

The  last-born  was  she. 

Never  a  boy  that  liv'd  to  grow 

Did  our  mother  carry; 
She  us'd  to  wonder  how  she'd  do 

With  five  great  girls  to  many. 
But  once  I  heard  her  say  to  Dad, 

A  chain  of  pretty  girls 
Made  out  her  neck  the  comelier  clad 

Than  diamonds  or  pearls. 

vi 

How  we  did  do  on  Father's  money 

Is  more  than  I  can  tell : 
There  was  the  money  from  the  honey, 

And  Mother's  work  as  well; 
For  she  did  work  with  no  more  rest 

Than  the  buzzing  bees, 
And  the  sight  I  knew  and  lov'd  the  best 

Was  Mother  on  her  knees. 

When  we  were  fed  and  clean  for  school, 

Out  Mother  goes, 
Rinsing,  rubbing,  her  hands  full 

Of  other  people's  clothes. 
16 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

If  there's  one  thought  above  another 

Sets  my  heart  singing, 
It's  thinking  of  my  little  sweet  Mother, 

Her  arms  full  of  linen. 

And  yet  she  rul'd  her  house  and  all 

Us  girls  within  it; 
There  was  no  meal  but  we  could  fall 

To  it  at  the  minute; 
Thing  there  was  none,  said,  thought  or  done, 

But  she  must  know  it, 
Nor  any  errand  to  be  run 

But  she  made  us  go  it. 

She  with  her  anxious,  watchful  glance, 

Blue  under  her  glasses, 
Was  meat  and  drink  and  providence 

To  us  five  lasses. 
Out  she  fetcht  from  hidden  stores 

White  frocks  for  Sundays, 
And  always  nice  clean  pinafores 

Against  school,  Mondays. 

She  and  Dad  were  little  people, 

But  most  of  us  were  tall, 
And  I  shot  up  like  Chichester  steeple; 

Fan,  she  was  small. 
17 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

You  never  saw  a  kinder  face 

Or  met  with  bluer  eyes : 
If  ever  there  was  a  kissing-case 

On  her  mouth  it  lies. 

vii 

WHEN  I  was  old  enough  for  skipping 

My  school  days  began; 
By  Mary's  side  you'd  see  me  tripping- 

I  was  baby  then. 
ABC  and  One-two-three 

Were  just  so  much  Greek; 
But  I  could  read,  it  seems  to  me, 

As  soon  as  I  could  speak. 

Before  I  knew  how  fast  I  grew 

I  was  the  tallest  there; 
Before  my  time  was  two-thirds  thro' 

I  must  plait  my  hair; 
Before  our  Alice  took  a  place 

And  walkt  beside  her  fancy, 
I  had  on  my  first  pair  of  stays 

And  saw  myself  Miss  Nancy. 

And  then  goodbye  to  form  and  desk 
And  sudden  floods  of  noise 

When  fifteen  minutes'  fun  and  frisk 
Make  happy  girls  and  boys. 
18 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

As  shrill  as  swifts  in  upper  air 

Was  our  young  shrillness : 
'Twas  joy  of  life,  'twas  strength  to  fare 

Broke  the  morning  stillness. 

I  see  us  flit,  as  here  I  sit 
With  wet-fring'd  eyes, 

And  never  rime  or  reason  to  it- 
Like  a  maze  of  flies ! 

The  boys  would  jump  and  catch  your  shoulder 
Just  for  the  fun  of  it — 

They  tease  you  worse  as  you  grow  older 
Because  you  want  none  of  it. 

I  hear  them  call  their  saucy  names — 

Mine  was  Maypole  Nance; 
I  see  our  windy  bickering  games, 

Half  like  a  dance; 
The  opening  and  closing  ring 

Of  pinaf  ored  girls, 
And  the  wind  that  makes  the  cheek  to  sting 

Blowing  back  their  curls ! 

There  in  the  midst  is  Sally  Waters, 

As  it  might  be  I, 
With  the  idle  song  of  Sons  and  Daughters 

Drifting  out  and  by — 
19 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

Sons  and  daughters!     Break,  break, 

Heart,  if  you  can — 

How  have  they   taught   us  treat   sons   and 
daughters 

Since  I  began? 


Vlll 

THERE  is  a  bank  that  always  gets 

The  noon  sun  full; 
There  we'd  hunt  for  violets 

After  morning  school. 
White  and  blue  we  hunted  them 

In  the  moss,  and  gave  them, 
Dropping-tir'd  and  short  in  stem, 

To  Mother.     She  must  have  them. 

Primrose-mornings  in  the  copse, 

Autumn  berrying 
Where  the  dew  forever  stops, 

And  the  serrying, 
Clinging  shrouds  of  gossamers 

Glue  your  eyes  together; 
Gleaning  after  harvesters 

In  the  mild  blue  weather — 
20 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

Life  so  full  of  bud  and  blossom, 

Fallen  like  a  tree! 
Who  gave  me  a  woman's  bosom — 

And  who  has  robb'd  me? 


21 


Ill 


WHEN  from  the  folds  the  shepherd  comes 

At  the  shut  of  day, 
The  fires  are  lit  in  valley  homes, 

The  smoke  blue  and  grey — 
So  still,  so  still! — hangs  o'er  the  thatch; 

So  still  the  night  falls, 
My  love  might  know  me  at  the  latch 

By  my  heart-calls. 

And  hear  you  me,  my  love,  this  night 

Where  Grief  and  I  are  set  ? 
And  look  you  for  the  beacon  light, 

And  can  you  see  it  yet? 
Or  is  the  sod  too  deep,  my  love, 

Which  they  piled  over  you? 
Or  are  you  bound  in  sleep,  my  love, 

Lying  in  the  dew? 

22 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

ii 

WHEN  I  was  done  with  schooling  days, 

Turn'd  sixteen, 
My  mother  found  me  in  a  place 

My  own  bread  to  win. 
I  had  not  been  a  month  in  place, 

A  month  from  the  start, 
When  there  show'd  grace  upon  my  face 

That  smote  a  man's  heart. 

Tho'  I  was  young  and  full  of  play, 

As  full  as  a  kitten, 
I  knew  to  reckon  to  a  day 

When  his  heart  was  smitten. 
You'll  pick  my  logic  all  to  holes, 

But  here's  my  wonder: 
It  is  that  God  should  knit  two  souls, 

And  men  tear  them  asunder. 

For  we  were  knit,  no  doubt  of  it, 

I  as  well  as  he; 
I  peered  in  glass,  my  eyes  were  lit 

After  he'd  lookt  at  me. 
I  knew  not  why  my  heart  was  glad, 

Or  why  it  leapt,  but  so  'tis, 
The  sharpest,  sweetest  pang  I've  had 

Was  when  he  took  notice. 
23 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

And  'tis  not  favour  makes  a  lad 

To  a  girl's  mind, 
But  'tis  himself  makes  good  of  bad, 

Or  her  stone-blind. 
And  men  may  cheer  at  tales  of  wars, 

But  every  girl  knows 
What  makes  her  eyes  to  shine  like  stars 

And  her  face  a  rose. 

iii 

No  word  he  said,  but  turned  his  head 

After  he'd  lookt  at  me; 
I  coloured  up  a  burning  red, 

Setting  the  cloth  for  tea. 
The  board  was  spread  with  cakes  and  bread 

For  farmer  in  his  sleeves, 
For  mistress  and  the  shepherd  Ted; 

They  talkt  of  hogs  and  theaves — 

But  nothing  ate  I  where  I  sat, 

So  bashful  as  I  was, 
But  kept  my  eyes  upon  my  plate 

And  pray'd  the  minutes  pass. 
Tic-toe,  tic-toe  from  great  old  clock, 

The  long  hand  did  creep; 
And  every  stroke  in  my  heart  woke 

Nature  out  of  her  sleep. 
24 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

So  once,  they  tell,  did  Gabriel 

Name  a  young  Maid 
For  honour  and  a  miracle, 

And  few  words  she  said; 
But  things  have  changed  a  wondrous  deal 

Since  she  was  nam'd, 
If  to  her  room  she  did  not  steal 

As  if  she  were  asham'd; 

And  there  upon  her  bed  to  sit 

Astare,  as  I  guess, 
Watching  her  fingers  weave  and  knit, 

Bedded  in  her  dress, 
A-thinking  thoughts  in  her  young  mind 

Too  wild  for  tears  to  gain, 
As  when  the  roaring  North- West  wind 

Gives  no  time  to  the  rain. 

iv 

GIVE  thanks,  you  maids,  that  there's  your  work 

To  keep  your  heart  and  head 
From  thoughts  that  lurk  in  them  who  shirk 

Their  daily  round  to  tread. 
But  she  goes  bold  who  feels  the  hold 

And  colour  of  her  love 
Laid  on  her  task  like  water-gold 

From  the  lit  sky  above. 
25 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

v 

I  ROSE  with  early  morning  light, 

The  meadows  grey  with  rime, 
To  set  the  kitchen  fire,  and  dight 

The  room  for  breakfast-time; 
Or  make  the  beds,  or  rinse  and  scour, 

And  all  the  while 
A  singing  heart,  a  face  aflower, 

And  secret  smile. 

So  'twas  with  me  week  in,  week  out, 

And  no  more  to  be  said; 
A  moment's  look,  a  hint  of  doubt, 

A  half-turn  of  the  head. 
I  had  my  hands  as  full  as  full, 

And  full  of  work  was  he — 
But  I  learn'd  in  another  school 

After  he'd  lookt  at  me. 

vi 

IN  summer  time  of  flowers  and  bees 

And  flies  on  the  pane, 
Before  the  sun  could  gild  the  trees 

Or  set  afire  the  vane, 
26 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

Down  I  must  go  upon  my  knees, 

Or  ply  the  showering  mop; 
Then  feed  the  chickens,  ducks  and  geese, 

And  milk  the  last  drop. 

On  winter  mornings  dark  and  hard, 

White  from  aching  bed, 
There  were  the  huddled  fowls  in  yard 

All  to  be  fed. 
My  frozen  breath  streamed  from  my  lips, 

The  cows  were  hid  in  steam; 
I  lost  sense  of  my  finger-tips 

And  milkt  in  a  dream. 

My  drowsy  cheek  fast  to  her  side, 

The  pail  below  my  arm, 
My  thought  leapt  what  might  me  betide, 

And  soon  I  was  warm. 
For  that  gave  me  a  beating  heart 

And  made  me  hot  thro', 
As  when  you  reckon,  with  a  start, 

Someone  speaks  of  you. 

vii 

AND  all  my  years  of  farm-service 
There  was  no  dismay, 
27 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

But  men  and  maids  knew  nought  amiss 

With  their  work  or  play; 
But  grew  amain  like  tree  or  beast, 

Labouring  out  their  lives 
Till  sap  and  milk  fill'd  spine  and  breast, 

And  ripen'd  men  and  wives. 

What  call  had  we  to  think  of  war, 

We  growing  things? 
What  need  had  we  to  reckon  o'er 

Misdoubts  or  threatenings? 
A  soldier-lad  in  his  red  coat 

Show'd  up  then  as  he  passed 
Like  a  lamp-lighted  fishing-boat 

Lonely  in  the  vast. 

An  aeroplane  in  middle  sky 

Might  bring  us  to  our  doors, 
To  see  her  like  a  dragon-fly 

Droning  as  she  soars. 
Long  before  you  see  her  come 

You  can  hear  her  throbbing, 
Far,  far  away  like  a  distant  drum, 

Near,  like  a  thresher  sobbing. 

Ah,  in  those  days  of  wonderment, 
Wonder  and  delight, 
28 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

No  thought  we  spent  what  murder  meant, 

Horror  in  the  night; 
Or  how  a  hidden  dreadful  plan 

Like  a  fingering  weed 
Was  growing  up  in  the  mind  of  man 

From  a  fungus-seed! 


29 


IV 


OUT  of  the  clear  how  shrewdly  blows 

The  North- West  wind! 
Free  as  he  goes,  how  brave  he  shows, 

The  sun  seems  blind ! 
The  shadows  fleet  upon  the  grass 

Where  the  kestrels  hover — 
What  leagues  of  sorrow  they  must  pass 

Before  they  shroud  my  lover ! 

Half -naked  now,  confronting  cold, 

The  tall  trees  shiver, 
Each  with  its  pool  of  pallid  gold 

Draining  down  to  the  river. 
'Tis  now  when  fret  of  winter  wet 

Warns  the  year  she  is  old, 
And  she  casts  robe  and  coronet, 

That  I  would  loosen  hold. 
30 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

•  • 
11 

OUR  lives  creep  on  to  change  at  last, 

And  change  is  sudden  coming; 
Rooted  you  see  yourself  and  fast, 

And  then  be  sent  roaming. 
When  I  was  come  to  twenty  years, 

Home  for  a  spell, 
Mother  she  brought  a  flush  of  tears 

With  what  she  had  to  tell. 

There  was  a  fine  new  place  for  me 

Forty  miles  away — 
And  where  my  dream  of  what  might  be 

One  fine  day? 
The  farmer's  wife  she  kiss'd  me  kindly 

When  I  was  paid; 
But  Ted  and  I  said  Good-bye  blindly, 

And  no  more  said. 

No  word  between  us  of  the  thought 

That  fill'd  four  years, 
No  fond  look  caught  by  eyes  well  taught, 

Tho'  thick  with  tears! 
'Twas  Good-bye,  Nance,  and  Good-bye,  Ted, 

And  just  a  clasp  of  the  hand : 
Maybe  I'll  write,  he  might  have  said 

For  me  to  understand. 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

But  poor  people  have  need  to  work 

Whether  merry  or  sad, 
Whatever  groping  thought  do  lurk, 

Whatever  dreams  they've  had! 
I  went  my  way  and  he  kept  his, 

I  to  the  county  town, 
He  in  a  row  of  cottages 

Below  the  hump-backt  down. 

iii 

A  TOWN-BRED  girl,  her  hair  in  curl 

And  apron  edged  with  lace, 
She  took  me  in,  my  head  awhirl, 

To  my  new  place. 
And  there  the  five  of  us  must  hive 

In  that  warm  shutter'd  house, 
And  keep  our  honesty  alive 

With  none  to  counsel  us. 

The  master  and  the  mistresses, 

What  were  they  but  strangers? 
'Twas  no  part  of  their  businesses 

To  think  of  servants'  dangers. 
They  sneer  at  us,  and  we  at  them, 

Life  sunders  where  the  stairs  are: 
But  are  the  things  that  they  condemn 

In  us  much  worse  than  theirs  are? 
32 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

iv 

'TWAS  busy  now  I  had  to  be, 

And  keep  myself  neat, 
Dress  in  my  new  black  gown  by  tea, 

And  streamer'd  cap  to  it. 
The  brisk  young  men  were  plenty  enough, 

And  talk  about  them  plenty 
Among  us  maids!    No  other  stuff 

Contents  the  tongue  at  twenty. 

But  Mother's  words  came  back  to  me, 

Told  when  I  was  little: 
Mind  you,  the  tongue's  your  only  key, 

And  what  it  guards  is  brittle. 
Love  is  the  best;  let  go  the  rest, 

But  hold  him  by  the  wing 
Until  he's  plumaged  for  the  test — 

Then  let  him  soar  and  sing. 

I  took  no  harm  of  all  their  talk — 

All  talkt  the  same — 
Tho'  more  than  one  askt  me  to  walk 

When  my  Sunday  came; 
But  I  held  fast  the  dream  I'd  had 

In  the  old  farm, 
And  saw  myself  beside  my  lad, 

My  hand  on  his  arm. 
33 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 


A  YEAR  went  on,  and  twenty-one 

Saw  me  discarded. 
They  laught  at  me  for  constancy 

Ne'er  to  be  rewarded. 
Then  came  a  warm,  still  day  of  May 

And  brought  me  a  letter. 
I  blusht  so  red,  the  cook  she  said, 

Lucky  man  to  get  her! 

At  half-past  three  he  came  for  me; 

I  dared  not  speak; 
But  there  was  all  he  need  to  see 

Flaming  in  my  cheek. 
What  better  has  the  best  of  us 

If  kind  Heaven  grant  her 
A  glowing  hearth,  a  little  house, 

And  a  good  man  to  want  her? 

In  the  soft  shrouding  clinging  mist 

His  strong  arms  held  me. 
Our  lips  kept  tryst,  and  long  we  kiss'd; 

His  great  love  fill'd  me. 
Sweet  is  the  warmth  of  summer  weather, 

But  the  best  fire  I  know 
Is  of  two  pair  of  lips  together, 

Two  hearts  in  one  glow. 
34 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

His  love  he  told,  that  made  me  bold 

To  look  at  him  fairly, 
And  see  the  burning  blush  take  hold 

And  colour  him  up  rarely. 
Within  his  ply  though  caught  was  I, 

.  I  backt  a  saucy  head : 
"Oh,  I  was  shy  a  year  gone  by — 

Your  turn  now, "  I  said. 

vi 

Now  would  you  prove  the  man  I  love 

As  I  saw  him  then? 
He  was  of  them  who're  slow  to  move, 

One  of  your  still  men; 
One  of  your  men  self-communing 

Who  see  sheep  on  a  hill, 
Ships  out  at  sea  or  birds  a- wing 

Where  you  see  nil. 

And  what  they  see  they  seldom  say, 

Holding  speech  to  be  vain; 
And  yet  so  kin  to  earth  are  they 

They  smell  the  coming  rain. 
The  earth  can  teach 'them  without  speech, 

They  know  as  they  are  known — 
Why  should  they  preach  to  the  out-of-reach, 

Or  counsel  Nature's  own? 
35 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

He  never  was  a  man  to  talk, 

He  was  too  wise; 
But  things  he'd  see  out  on  his  walk 

Would  blind  another's  eyes. 
But  when  it  came  to  speak  about  them 

'Twas  another  thing. 
He'd  say,  "What  use  is  it  to  shout  them? 

I  want  to  sing!" 

A  smallish  head,  with  jet-black  hair 

And  eyes  grey-blue, 
You  felt  when'er  he  lookt  you  fair 

That  he  must  be  true; 
And  when  he  smil'd  his  dear  and  shy  way 
.    Sidelong  his  mouth, 
I  always  thought  the  sun  fell  my  way 

And  the  wind  South. 

So  I  possest  the  knowledge  blest 

That  Love  had  held  him  fast 
Since  the  day  our  eyes  confest, 

The  first  time  and  the  last. 
"Since  then, "  he  said/ 'I  never  durst 

Look  at  you  at  all, 
For  fear  you'd  see  the  hunger  and  thirst 

That  kept  me  like  a  thrall. 
36 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

vii 

"  'TWAS  when  you  went  away  and  left 

Me  and  pain  alone, 
By  fortune's  theft  I  stood  bereft 

Of  all  I'd  counted  on — 
And  this  also,  I  ne'er  could  go 

On  my  shepherd  life, 
Without  I  had  the  grace  to  woo 

You  my  loving  wife. 

"  There  was  a  fate,  I  do  believe, 

Call'd  us  together; 
God  visit  me  when'er  you  grieve 

Taking  on  my  tether! 
But  if  we  share  with  every  creature 

That  is  quick  and  dead 
The  call  of  nature  unto  nature, 

Then  we  two  should  wed. 

"  You  are  a  beauty  bred  and  born, 

As  any  one  can  see; 
You  walk  the  world  as  if  in  scorn 

Of  riches  or  degree. 
Your  eyes  call  home  the  soft  green  tone 

Of  the  fainting  sky 
When  the  eve-star  keeps  watch  alone, 

And  the  summer  is  nigh. 
37 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

"But  'tis  your  grave  and  constant  mind 

Beckon'd  me  to  you, 
Too  good,  too  sweet,  too  fond,  too  kind, 

For  me  to  be  untrue. 
So  trust  me,  lass,  I'll  not  be  false 

While  I  do  live, 
For  we  two  go  where  Nature  calls, 

As  I  believe." 

viii 

TRUST!    Oh,  I  could  have  sunk  to  ground 

And  lain  under  his  feet ! 
To  have  his  praise  was  like  a  wound, 

Throbbing  and  deadly  sweet; 
A  wound  that  lets  the  welling  blood 

Ebb  from  the  vein, 
Merging  the  hurt  in  drowsihood, 

And  hushing  down  the  pain. 

High  destiny  of  Nature's  calling, 

Foil'd  and  frustrate! 
Just  then  the  evil  tide  was  crawling 

To  drown  love  in  hate. 


V 


THE  meadows  wear  a  cloth  of  gold, 

The  trees  wear  green; 
Upon  the  down  in  dimpled  fold 

The  white  lambs  glean ; 
Deep  blue  the  skyey  canopy, 

Soft  the  wind's  fan : 
Behold  the  earth  as  it  might  be 

If  man  lov'd  man ! 

Summer  is  soon;  the  next  new  moon 

Will  see  the  yellowing  wheat; 
Then  will  be  harvest,  Earth's  high  boon 

To  them  that  work  for  it. 
The  reapers  swink,  the  heat-waves  blink 

Across  the  drowsy  fen — 
Now   let   hearts    shrink   from    scythes    that 
drink 

The  blood  of  young  men ! 
39 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

ii 

As  I  stood  at  my  open  door 

I  caught  a  flying  word : 
Two    strangers  past,    "Then  that    means 
war—" 

That  was  what  I  heard. 
'Twas  ten  o'clock  a  summer's  day, 

My  love  on  the  hill. 
"Then  that  means  war, "  I  heard  them  say, 

And  my  heart  stood  still. 


Life  had  been  fair  as  I  stood  there, 

Eight  weeks  a  bride; 
All  of  me  laid  warm  and  bare 

To  my  true  love's  side! 
Oh,  who  should  dream  of  dark  to-morrows 

And  lonely  weeping 
Whose  steadfast  joys  and  passing  sorrows 

Lay  in  such  a  keeping? 


There  blew  a  chill  wind  from  the  hill 

Like  a  sea-breath; 
I  shiver'd  and  a  taint  of  ill 

Brought  news  of  death. 
40 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

I  blinkt  my  eyes  as  who  should  try 

To  see  what  is  to  fear; 
The  sun  still  shone  high  in  the  sky, 

But  no  warmth  there. 

Then  far  away  I  saw  the  sea 

A  rippling  golden  sheet, 
And  courage  flowed  again  in  me — 

What  foe  could  break  thro'  it? 
And  all  about  the  fields  and  hedges, 

There  when  I  was  born, 
The  river  slipping  through  the  sedges, 

And  the  growing  corn — 

A  land  of  quiet  tilth  and  cote, 

Of  little  woods  and  streams, 
Of  gentle  skies  and  clouds  afloat, 

And  swift  sun-gleams! 
A  land  where  knee-deep  cattle  keep, 

Chewing  as  they  stand; 
Of  hillsides  murmurous  with  sheep — 

That  is  my  native  land ! 

They  say  you  never  love  so  dear 

As  when  you  are  to  part; 
I  know,  to  see  my  land  so  clear 

Cut  me  to  the  heart. 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

What  vain  regrets  to  have  lov'd  so  ill 

What  was  our  all! 
What  idle  vows  to  love  her  still 

Though  she  should  fall! 

At  stroke  of  noon  my  love  came  in 

Sharpset  for  his  food; 
To  see  him  was  right  sense  to  win, 

And  feel  safe  and  good. 
I  was  asham'd  my  fears  to  tell 

Lest  he  should  think, 
' '  I  thought  I  knew  this  woman  well — 

But  what  makes  her  shrink  ?" 

iii 

THE  summer  went  her  gracious  way 

Of  sun  and  lingering  eves; 
I  did  my  share  to  win  the  hay, 

The  corn  stood  in  sheaves 
Ere  August  month  was  fairly  come; 

And  when  it  was  here 
I  knew  I  carried  in  my  womb 

The  harvest  of  my  dear. 

iv 

WHEN  I  was  sure  I  sat  down  quiet 
In  the  deep  shade, 
42 


The  Village  Wifefs  Lament 

And  if  my  heart  was  all  in  riot 

I  was  not  afraid. 
I  did  not  think,  nor  say  a  pray'r, 

But  lookt  straight  before  me, 
And  felt  that  Someone  else  stood  there 

With  hands  held  o'er  me. 

I  thought  His  peace  blest  my  increase; 

But  then,  as  it  seem'd, 
A  shadow  made  my  joy  to  cease, 

And  the  day  was  dimm'd. 
I  shiver'd  as  if  one  a  knife 

Should  pull  forth  of  the  sheath. 
I  think  just  then  the  Lord  of  Life 

Gave  way  to  Him  of  Death. 

As  one  bestead  with  gossamer-thread 

I  pluckt  at  my  eyes 
To  catch  again  the  glory  shed, 

The  hope,  the  load,  the  prize; 
But  no  more  hands  invisible 

Held  like  a  shade  o'er  me, 
And  there  seem'd  little  enough  to  tell 

My  husband  momently. 

The  long  forenoon  my  thought  I  held, 
And  yet  all  thro'  it 
43 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

The  wires  all  England  over  shrill'd, 

And  I  never  knew  it ! 
In  a  high  muse  I  nurst  my  news 

All  the  forenoon, 
While  England  braced  her  limbs  and  thews 

To  a  marching  tune. 


I  SERV'D  my  love,  when  he  came  home, 

His  meal;  then  on  his  knee 
I  told  him  what  I  might  become, 

And  he  kiss'd  me; 
Then  said,  "Indeed,  there  may  be  need 

Of  this  little  one, 
For  many  a  woman's  heart  must  bleed 

For  wanting  of  a  son. 

"  Since  we  awoke,  the  word  is  spoke, 

And  if  'tis  still  right 
That  English  folk  keep  faith  unbroke, 

Then  must  England  fight. " 
I  could  not  look,  nor  think,  nor  ask 

What  himself  would  do, 
But  caird  to  task  my  pride,  to  bask 

In  what  had  warm'd  me  thro*. 
44 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

Oh,  he  was  grave  and  self-possest 

Under  love's  new  crown ! 
He  took  me  in  his  arms  to  rest, 

And  lay  my  head  down 
A  moment  on  his  shoulder;  then 

Went  steady  to  his  work. 
I  knew  what  fate  soe'er  call'd  men 

He  was  none  to  shirk. 


Now  I  must  play  the  helpful  wife, 

And  my  new  pride 
Be  little  worth  to  ease  the  strife 

That  vext  me  in  the  side; 
For  like  a  green  and  aching  wound, 

Like  a  throbbing  vein 
I  felt  this  terror  on  the  ground 

Of  young  men  slain. 

The  swooning  summer  sun  sank  low, 

And  all  the  dusty  air 
Held  breathlessly  beneath  his  glow, 

So  tir'd,  so  quiet  and  fair, 
I  would  not  think  that  men  could  live 

In  such  glory  a  minute, 
To  hate  and  grudge,  to  slay  and  reive 

Poor  souls  within  it. 
45 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

vi 

I  HEARD  fond  crying  in  my  ears, 

Fond  and  vain  regret 
For  life  as  it  had  been  ere  tears 

Made  women's  eyes  wet; 
I  saw  arise  the  host  of  stars 

And  listen' d  to  their  song; 
"O  we  have  seen  a  thousand  wars 

And  woe  agelong ! 

"What  are  you  men,  what  are  you  women 

But  a  shifting  sand? 
The  tide  of  life  is  overbrimming — 

God  holds  not  His  hand; 
But  all  the  evil  with  the  good 

To  His  mill  is  grist ; 
He  serves  his  mood  now  with  man's  blood 

Who  serv'd  it  once  with  beast. " 

So  sang  the  stars.     That  night  our  love 

Burn'd  at  its  holiest; 
For  aught  we  knew  the  same  might  prove 

Our  last  in  the  nest. 
But  from  the  bed  my  passion  pled, 

O  God,  let  us  be! 
If  woman's  anguish  her  bestead, 

Then  forsake  not  me! 
46 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

vii 

I  DARE  not  trace  that  watching  space 

Of  days,  too  short,  too  long — 
Too  long  to  wear  a  patient  face, 

Too  short  to  wear  a  strong. 
I  us'd  to  think  I'd  have  him  choose 

His  duty  and  begone; 
And  then,  No,  no,  I  dare  not  lose 

Him  ere  he  take  his  son ! 

Too  long,  too  short  the  days  to  wait, 

To  plan  and  think  and  dread; 
And  happy  we  whose  poor  estate 

Claims  our  work  for  our  bread. 
Each  day  I  went  to  scour  and  scrub 

As  my  mother  us'd, 
Or  stood  before  the  washing-tub 

Where  the  linen  sluiced. 

And  so  my  love  with  careful  hand 

And  careful  eye 
Led  his  white  flock  about  the  land; 

And  I  must  sigh, 
" There's  no  rebelling  in  a  poor  man's  dwelling, 

The  roof  stoops  to  the  blast; 
And  no  heart-swelling  meets  God's  compelling, 

And  what  is  cast  is  cast!" 
47 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

viii 

BUT  as  the  tide  crawls  to  his  full 

Without  your  knowing, 
Invading  rock  and  filling  pool, 

Endlessly  flowing; 
Lo,  while  you  sit  and  look  at  it, 

Idle,  little  thinking, 
The  flood  is  brimming  at  your  feet, 

Lipping  there  and  winking — 

The  very  same  the  Great  War  grew; 

Like  a  flowing  tide 
It  spread  its  channels  thro*  and  thro' 

The  quiet  countryside. 
One  day  you'd  stop:  a  poster  up, 

And  Lord,  how  it  glared! 
The  next  there'd  be  a  very  crop, 

And  not  a  body  stared. 

And  then  the  lorries  flung  along 

By  ones  and  twos,  and  then 
In  snaky  line  some  twenty  strong, 

Full  of  shouting  men. 
They  made  me  blench  with  noise  and  stench, 

But  more,  I  do  believe, 
To  know  them  gaining  inch  by  inch 

The  earth  whereby  we  live. 
48 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

So  faded  fast  the  painted  past 

Beneath  the  mist  of  war; 
One  could  not  think  life  had  been  cast 

In  sweet  lines  before. 
There  was  no  list  in  that  red  mist 

For  love  or  wholesome  breath, 
But  making  rage  our  staple  grist 

We  ground  the  dust  of  death. 

Our  men  held  talk  among  themselves, 

But  said  little  to  we; 
And  soon  they  went  by  tens  and  twelves 

Soldiers  to  be. 
I  knew  how  'twould  be  from  the  first, 

I  think  my  heart  could  tell; 
I  loved  a  man  who  never  durst 

Not  do  well. 

ix 

How  young,  how  gay  they  marcht  away, 

All  our  village  boys! 
Leaving  us  women  here  to  pray, 

Drowning  with  their  noise 
Misdoubt  and  eager  mother-love, 

Hungry  on  the  watch, 
As  if  they  went  to  race  and  shove 

In  a  football  match, 
4  49 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

But  my  love  chose  in  soberness 

Another  way,  his  own;j 
And  God  I  bless  that  my  distress 

Came  suddenly  down. 
A  swift  November  night  was  falling 

In  a  windless  air; 
I  heard  him  indoors,  heard  him  calling, 

And  went,  and  he  was  there. 


HE  stood  still,  and  his  gaze 
Was  far  off,  and  slow 

And  quiet  the  words  he  says : 
"Nancy,  I  must  go." 

In  my  still  heart's  deep 
I  gloried  in  the  trust 

He  handed  me  to  keep, 
In  his  quiet  "I  must. " 

No  more  we  said  that  night, 
But  sat  in  the  gloom; 

We  sat  without  candle-light 
In  our  little  room. 
50 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

Handfast,  like  girl  and  boy, 

There  we  sat  on, 
Hoarding  our  store  of  joy 

Against  he  were  gone. 

Handfast,  like  boy  and  girl, 
And  my  eyes  they  did  fill; 

But  my  heart  was  in  a  whirl 
To  have  him  there  still. 

'Twas  when  we  were  abed, 
And  I  against  his  heart, 

That  I  knew  the  great  dread 
It  would  be  to  part. 

Old  sayings,  that  sounded  new, 
Sweet,  every  broken  word — 

"My  Nancy,  sweet  and  true, 
My  pretty  wild  bird!" 

I  let  him  kiss  me,  but  I 
Lay  quite  still  in  his  arm: 

If  I  had  started  to  cry 
God  only  knew  the  harm! 

And  if  he  thought  me  cool 

'Twould  make  an  easier  going; 

But  if  he  thought  me  cool 

'Twas  not  for  want  of  knowing. 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

Towards  the  twilight  grey 
When  my  love  was  sleeping, 

I  sat  upright  to  pray, 

And  heard  the  sparrows  cheeping. 

It  was  their  fond  love-twitter 
That  broke  my  prayer  down, 

Turn'd  all  my  faith  bitter, 
To  set  it  by  their  own. 

Their  love-life  to  begin, 

And  mine  now — where? 
Their  nest  to  win, 

Mine  soon  to  be  bare! 

I  lookt  forth  from  my  bed 

To  the  cold  square  of  the  light — 
Unto  God  I  said, 

"Show  me  why  men  must  fight, 

"You,  Who  to  each  one  say, 

Love  you  one  another; 
You,  Who  bid  women  obey 

Husbands,  and  sons  their  mother; 

"You,  Who  of  me  require 
To  love  what  I  cannot  see, 

Milk  and  a  heart  of  fire 

To  nourish  what  may  not  be! 
52 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

"  Shall  my  milk  be  churn'd  into  gall, 
Or  my  blood  freeze  at  the  fount, 

And  You  make  light  of  it  all, 
And  my  love  of  little  account?" 

Then  as  I  held  my  throat, 
God  answer'd  me  by  a  bird, 

One  long  flourishing  note, 
The  bravest  I  ever  heard; 

And  I  turn'd  where  my  love  lay  fast 

In  his  wholesome  sleep; 
About  him  my  arms  I  cast 

And  found  grace  to  weep. 

He  would  do  what  was  right, 

As  I  knew  very  well — 
Yes,  but  who  made  them  fight, 

And  turn'd  our  heaven  to  hell? 

The  more  I  listen  the  sighs, 
The  mourning  and  the  dearth, 

The  deeper  my  heart  cries 
Over  this  wounded  earth. 


53 


VI 


MAY  the  good  King 
That  guards  like  sheep 

Kings  and  shepherds  all 
Send  us  quiet  sleep ! 

Shepherds  great  and  small 

Has  He  in  hold; 
There  need  no  danger 

Threaten  field  or  fold. 

Lowly  in  a  manger 
That  King  was  born 

Of  maid  undefiled 
On  a  winter's  morn. 

He  lay  a  little  child 
On  His  mother's  knee; 

Three  kings  out  of  the  East 
Came  Him  to  see. 
54 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

On  a  mother's  breast 

Still  did  He  lie; 
Said  one  king  to  the  other, 

"Such  once  was  II" 

Then  said  his  brother, 
"Even  thus,  I  trow, 

Once  lay  thy  simplicity, 
But  where  is  that  now  ?  " 


11 


How  many  a  woman's  eyes  are  worn, 

Weeping  a  murder'd  son! 
How  many  wish  none  they  had  borne 

To  do  as  theirs  have  done! 
Who  dares  to  see  a  mask  of  hate 

And  snarling  on  the  face 
Which  she  had  pray'd  to  consecrate 

To  honour  for  a  space? 

This  high-flusht  lad  whom  she  has  known 

Since  as  a  new-born  child 
He  lay  as  soft  as  thistle-down, 

Or  like  an  angel  smil'd; 
Whom  she  has  seen,  a  sturdy  imp 

Tumble  bare-breecht  at  play, 
55 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

Or  nurst  to  health  when,  quiet  and  limp, 
Short-breath'd  and  flusht  he  lay; 


Or  shockhead  boy,  aburst  with  joy, 

Or  gawky,  ill-at-ease, 
All  hot  and  coy,  a  hobbledehoy 

With  laces  round  his  knees — 
But  hers,  her  own,  with  eyes  that  trust 

Hers  for  his  better  part — 
Ah,  tiger-lust  of  War  that  thrust 

A  hand  to  snatch  that  heart ! 


She  hides  her  woe,  and  helps  him  go, 

She  sits  at  home  to  pray; 
He  tells  her  when  he  met  the  foe, 

But  nothing  of  the  way. 
She  never  knows  the  way,  and  who 

Would  know  it  if  she  could, 
What  in  his  fever-heat  he  do 

Of  rage  and  dust  and  blood? 

The  lads  go  by,  the  colours  fly, 
Drums  rattle,  bugles  bray; 

We  only  cry,  Let  mine  not  die — 
No  thought  for  whom  he  slay. 
56 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

But  woman  bares  a  martyr  breast, 
And  herself  points  the  flame : 

Her  son,  a  hero  or  a  beast, 
Will  never  be  the  same. 

iii 

WHEN  forth  my  love  to  duty  went 

I  sought  my  old  home, 
My  few  months'  joy  over  and  spent, 

And  lean  years  to  come. 
My  mother  blinkt  her  patient  eyes ; 

She  said,  It  was  to  be. 
Was  I  less  temperate  or  more  wise 

To  question  her  decree? 

Was  it  for  this,  our  clasp  and  kiss? 

For  this  end  and  no  other 
That  I  was  shapt  to  have  increase, 

And  caird  to  be  mother? 
Did  God  make  o'er  the  power  to  soar 

On  men,  that  they  should  sink? 
Did  He  outpour  a  flood  of  war 

And  leave  us  on  the  brink? 

Was't  so  He  wove  the  robe  of  Love, 
To  mock  the  lovely  earth? 
57 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

Sees  He,  above,  creation  move 

To  death,  not  birth?   . 
Go,  thou  dear  head,  for  God  is  dead, 

And  Death  is  our  Lord : 
Between  us,  red,  lies  in  the  bed 

War,  like  a  naked  sword. 

iv 

O  FAILING  heart,  accept  your  part, 
And  thank  the  Lord,  Who  bound 

Your  labour  daily  to  the  mart, 
Your  service  to  the  ground ! 

Take  to  the  mart  your  stricken  heart, 
Tho'  the  chaffer  graze  it; 

Shrink  not  altho'  the  quick  flesh  smart- 
But  meet  pain  and  praise  it ! 


HE  came  to  see  me  once  again, 

Stiffened  in  his  new  buff; 
A  few  short  hours  compact  of  strain, 

Too  hasty  for  love; 
For  Love  can  never  be  confin'd, 

But  asks  eternity. 
To  nurse  the  lov'd  one  in  the  mind 

The  bond  must  first  be  free. 
58 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

And  he,  he  now  serv'd  otherwhere 

And  could  not  be  the  same; 
To  all  the  world  my  love  was  there 

And  answer'd  to  his  name; 
But  not  to  me,  oh,  not  to  me 

The  kisses  of  his  lips 
Were  as  of  old,  but  guardedly, 

Like  sunlight  in  eclipse. 

The  moment  came,  I  held  him  close, 

But  had  no  word  to  say — 
Good-bye,  sweetheart,  Good-bye,  BlushRose ; 

'Twas  his  old  way. 
Then  in  a  hush  which  seem'd  to  rock 

Me  like  a  leaf  about, 
I  heard  the  pulsing  of  the  clock, 

Counting  my  dear  life  out. 

And  I  am  here,  and  you  are,  where? 

While  the  long  hours  go  by, 
And  on  my  eyes  the  glaze  of  care, 

And  in  my  heart  a  cry. 
Bury  my  heart  deep  in  the  grave 

Where  all  its  grace  is  hid : 
What  other  service  should  I  have 

Than  tend  my  lovely  dead? 
59 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

vi 

THEN  waiting,  watching,  judging  news, 

Then  terror  in  the  night — 
I  used  to  start  up  with  the  dews 

All  over  me  of  fright. 
I  dream'd  of  him  on  stormy  seas; 

Then,  in  a  woodland  bare, 
I  saw  my  love  on  hands  and  knees, 

With  blood  upon  his  hair. 

Along  the  limits  of  the  wood, 

A  green  bank  full  of  holes, 
With  Kchen'd  stumps  which  lean'd  or  stood 

Like  crazy  channel-poles : 
'Twas  there  I  saw  my  love's  drawn  face, 

A  face  of  paper- white, 
Wherein  just  for  a  choking  space 

His  eyes  shone  burning  bright; 

Then  faded,  and  an  eyeless  man 

He  crawled  along  the  wood, 
And  from  his  hair  a  black  line  ran 

And  broadened  into  blood. 
It  was  not  horror  of  him  wrong'd, 

It  was  not  pity  mov'd  me; 
It  was,  those  tortur'd  eyes  belonged 

To  one  who'd  never  lov'd  me. 
60 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

» 
That  was  my  love  in  face  and  shape, 

That  was  my  love  in  pain; 
But  something  told  me  past  escape 

That  not  by  him  I'd  lain. 
I  sat  and  star'd  into  the  night, 

And  still  most  dreadfully 
I  saw  those  two  eyes  burning  white 

That  never  had  seen  me! 


Vll 

UPON  a  wild  March  morn 
My  husband  went  to  France; 

The  day  my  child  was  born 
His  word  came  to  advance. 

'Twas  on  that  very  day 

When  my  life  should  be  crown'd, 
As  I  lay  in,  he  lay 

Broken  upon  the  ground. 

For  my  loss  there  was  gain, 

But  his  precious  blood 
Was  shed  to  earth  like  rain 

Within  the  shattered  wood. 
61 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

Missing,  the  paper  said, 

But  my  heart  said,  Nay. 
Missing !     My  man  had  been  dead 

Before  he  went  away! 

viii 

IT  never  throve  from  the  first, 
Mother,  she  seem'd  to  fear  it; 

But  her  words  were  the  worst : 
"Nancy,  you'll  never  rear  it. " 

Yet  he  took  to  the  breast 

And  I  knew  the  great  end 
Of  women,  to  give  their  best, 

To  spend  and  to  spend. 

But  his  great  eyes  stared 

Till  he  seemed  all  eyes, 
And  more  than  I  dared 

Meet  looks  so  wise. 

Wondering  and  darkly  blue, 

Pondering  and  slow, 
They  would  look  you  thro'  and  thro', 

Then  tire  and  let  you  go, 
62 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

And  fall  back  to  vacancy 

As  if  the  poor  thing  plain'd, 
1 '  Why  was  I  not  let  be, 

And  what  have  I  gain'd  ?" 

'Twas  more  than  I  could  bear, 

I  pray'd  that  he  might  die; 
And  God  must  have  heard  my  prayer, 

For  he  went  with  a  little  sigh: 

A  flutter,  a  murmur,  a  sigh 

Lighter  than  dawn  wind — 
It  was  his  soft  Good-bye; 

And  all  my  life  lay  behind. 

I  wonder  if  they  were  wise, 
Those  three  kings  of  the  East 

Who  offer'd  gifts  of  price 

To  the  Child  on  a  Girl's  breast. 

But  if  they  were  wise,  their  sons 
Have  other  counsel  than  they : 

The  gifts  they  offer  are  guns ; 

And  the  children's  parents  they  slay. 

ix 

HE  went  before  my  load  was  quicken'd, 
And  I  lay  in  alone. 
63 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

He  was  not  there  when  baby  sicken'd, 

Nor  when  it  was  gone. 
I  walkt  with  Mother  to  the  church 

With  Mother  and  Fan, 
My  hard  eyes  ever  on  the  search — 

Pity  me  who  can! 

The  grief  was  bad  enough  to  bear, 

So  dreadfully  to  wean  it ; 
But  to  go  home  and  leave  it  there, 

And  he  had  never  seen  it — ! 
It  was  a  thing  to  thank  God  for 

That  home  for  me  was  none; 
I  knew  before  we  reacht  the  door 

That  my  home  life  was  done. 


X 


Now  limpt  or  dragg'd  about  our  street 

The  wounded  men  in  blue, 
Trailing  the  feet  which  had  been  fleet, 

Or  crutching  one  for  two; 
Like  ghosts  of  men  past  out  of  ken, 

Pale  and  uncertain-eyed, 
Whose  gaze  would  flicker  out,  and  then 

Come  back  with  hasty  pride. 
64 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

What  they  had  seen  they  never  told, 

Nor  what  they  had  done: 
I  saw  young  lads  turn'd  suddenly  old; 

I  saw  the  blind  in  the  sun 
Look  up  to  pray,  as  if  the  blue 

Was  shapt  like  a  cross: 
There  came  back  one  my  husband  knew, 

Spoke  kindly  of  my  loss. 

He  told  me  how  my  love  was  dead; 

He  was  not  the  first! 
Broadcast  our  land  the  word  of  dread 

Told  women  the  worst. 
They  say,  let  love  and  light  be  given 

So  we  keep  Liberty; 
But  I  say  there  is  no  more  Heaven 

If  men  must  so  be  free. 

xi 

CAN  it  be  own'd  that  kings  were  crown'd, 

Consecrate  to  such  evil? 
God-appointed,  by  God  anointed 

Only  to  play  the  devil! 
Their  men  to  bind  of  the  tiger  kind, 

To  bind  and  then  to  goad, 
Blundering,  slavering,  hot  and  blind, 

On  murder's  hollow  road? 
65 


The  Village  Wife's  Lament 

If  kings  are  so,  then  let  all  go — 

Let  my  dear  love  cast  down 
His  lovely  life,  so  we  lay  low 

The  last  to  wear  a  crown. 
I'll  look  upon  the  steadfast  stars, 

Patient  and  true  and  wise, 
And  read  in  them  the  end  of  wars, 

As  in  my  dead  love's  eyes. 

O  Lord  of  Life,  for  whom  this  earth 

Should  image  back  Thy  thought, 
Wherein  the  mystery  of  birth 

In  Love  like  Thine  be  wrought, 
If  pity  stands  with  Thy  commands, 

Grant  a  short  breathing-space 
Ere  men  hold  up  their  bloody  hands 

Before  Thy  awful  face. 


66 


Note 


Note 

THIS  poem  is  dramatic,  and  I  am  not  to 
be  supposed  answerable  for  all  that  it 
expresses;  nevertheless  I  think  that  my 
own  convictions  about  aggressive  war  are  very 
much  those  of  my  Village  Wife.  Of  defensive 
war,  of  war  to  save  the  lives  of  our  children,  of 
war  to  save  humanity  itself,  there  cannot  be 
two  sane  opinions:  that  is  a  pious  duty  forced 
upon  us;  but  it  becomes  every  day  more  incon- 
ceivable to  me  how  men  can  engage  in  the  other 
kind  of  war,  and  how,  in  particular,  a  people  so 
provident  as  the  German  people  could  have  hood- 
winked themselves  into  believing  that  they  could 
be  better  off  by  such  a  monstrous  means  as  war- 
fare has  now  become.  They  had  behind  them 
the  experience  of  the  Russians  and  Japanese; 
they  had  all  about  them  the  evidences  of  their 
forty  years*  commercial  activity ;  they  must  have 
known,  or  at  least  their  governors  must  have 
known,  what  kind  of  results  might  be  looked  for 
from  modern  armament —  and  yet  they  dared  risk 
the  dereliction  of  human  morality,  the  cutting 
69 


Note 

off  of  a  generation  of  men,  and  their  own  national 
bankruptcy.  Whether  it  was  the  madness  of  lust, 
or  of  pride,  or  of  fear,  it  was  a  madness  which 
has  procured  the  greatest  disaster  of  recorded 
time,  and  revealed  a  criminal  folly  in  themselves 
which  it  will  take  more  than  two  generations  to 
efface.  Indeed,  German  blood-lust  will  become 
one  of  the  standing  legends  of  History. 

The  Village  Wife  knows  nothing  of  the  Ger- 
mans, however,  and  her  reproaches  strike  at  the 
heart  of  Mankind.  So  long  as  Mankind  looks 
upon  aggressive  war  as  a  reasonable,  if  ultimate, 
appeal,  her  reproaches  will  have  force,  and  be 
deserved.  They,  or  something  like  them  (with 
the  sanction  of  inspiration  upon  them),  will,  I 
believe,  be  the  means  of  our  redemption.  As 
human  nature  still  actually  is,  no  League  of 
Nations  conceivable  to  us  will  be  able  to  save  us 
from  war.  Rend  your  hearts  and  not  your  arma- 
ments. Let  us  learn  to  look  War  in  the  face,  and 
while  the  blood  is  cold,  so  that  we  may  know  what 
we  are  meaning  to  do.  Let  us  put  a  moral  taboo 
upon  it,  such  as  we  have  put  upon  parricide,  or 
incest,  or  cannibalism.  For  certain,  in  those 
matters,  the  reason  has  put  a  sanction  on  the 
conscience.  So  will  it  in  the  matter  of  aggressive 
war.  Side  by  side  with  that,  as  we  now  see,  we 
must  change  the  governance  of  nations.  If  those 
who  do  a  nation's  work  are  given  their  due  share 
70 


Note 

of  that  nation's  government,  war,  I  firmly  believe, 
will  become  a  dark  memory,  a  blotted  cloud  upon 
a  past  age.  "Hundreds  of  years  ago, "  it  will 
one  day  be  said  to  some  wondering  child,  "men 
hired  men  to  murder  each  other  for  the  sake  of 
their  religion  or  their  commerce.  This  they  had 
done  for  thousands  of  years  until  at  last,  in 
the  most  dreadful  of  their  wars,  they  killed  or 
maimed  a  whole  generation  in  the  space  of  about 
four  years.  Then  it  was  that  men  saw  what  they 
had  been  doing,  and  for  a  while  the  world  was 
shamed,  silent.  That  time  of  silence  was  long 
enough  to  turn  the  hearts  of  men. " 

I  have  put  into  the  mouth  of  my  Village  Wife 
thoughts  which  she  may  never  have  formulated, 
but  which,  I  am  very  sure,  lie  in  her  heart,  too 
deep  for  any  utterance  but  that  of  tears.  If  I 
know  anything  of  village  people  I  know  this,  that 
they  shape  their  lives  according  to  Nature,  and 
are  outraged  to  the  root  of  their  being  by  the 
frustration  of  Nature's  laws  and  the  stulti- 
fication of  man's  function  in  the  scheme  of 
things.  What  the  function  of  man  is,  what  the 
power,  what  the  dignity  have  been  well  para- 
phrased in  these  words: 

' '  Neither  a  fixed  abode,  nor  a  form  in  thine  own 
likeness,  nor  any  gift  peculiar  to  thyself  alone, 
have  we  given  thee,  O  Adam,  in  order  that  what 
abode,  what  likeness,  what  gifts  thou  shalt  choose 


Note 

may  be  thine  to  have  and  to  possess.  The  nature 
allotted  to  all  other  creatures,  within  laws  ap- 
pointed by  ourselves,  restrains  them.  Thou, 
restrained  by  no  narrow  bounds,  according  to 
thy  own  free  will,  in  whose  power  we  have  placed 
thee,  shalt  define  thy  nature  for  thyself.  We 
have  set  thee  midmost  the  world,  that  thence 
thou  mightest  more  conveniently  survey  what- 
soever is  in  the  world.  Nor  have  we  made  thee 
either  heavenly  or  earthly,  mortal  or  immortal,  to 
the  end  that  thou,  being,  as  it  were,  thy  own 
free  maker  and  moulder,  shouldst  fashion  thy- 
self in  what  form  may  like  thee  best.  Thou  shalt 
have  power  to  decline  unto  the  lower  or  brute 
creatures.  Thou  shalt  have  power  to  be  reborn 
unto  the  higher  or  divine,  according  to  the  sen- 
tence of  thy  intellect.1  Thus  to  Man,  at  his 
birth,  the  Father  gave  seeds  of  all  variety  and 
germs  of  every  form  of  life. " 

That  is  near  enough  to  the  Nature  of  Man  for 
present  purposes. 

"Teach  us  man's  worth,  that  we  may  know  it, 

Who,  being  alone  in  power  to  lift 
Above  his  nature,  sinks  below  it!" 

BROADCHALKE,  7th  July,  1918. 


72 


•^•m? 


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